THE IVYEditors-in-Chief

Gianna Kim & Haley Clark

Managing EditorsNicole Kahn & Vicky Gebert

Feedback & ReviewAmelia Stokolosa & Veronika Szabo

Technology & LayoutEvan Pavley (Manager)

Claire SchultzFia Miller

Jinqi Zhang

BusinessStefan Pophristic & Luzylar Wu

Art & Literature StaffMary Sutton, Mikaella Granzen

Lindsay Lim, Isabel MonseauMelody Zhuo, Hanna Szabo

AdvisorsMr. Gonzalez & Ms. Muça

New year. New advisors. New layout. A new path to connect with the community. Back in December, when we held a poetry night at a popular local business, dozens recited poetry and short stories and enjoyed food and con-versation. That night, we shared an appreciation for the arts with the community. It is a feeling that we strived to replicate in this issue of the magazine. In the future, we will continue to provide the community with an outlet for their creativity and their appreciation for the arts. With this, we invite you to join us for the Poetry Festival, on April 16th, and experience The Ivy in its new form firsthand. The Ivy staff has included a variety of new additions to bring the magazine into a new era while preserving its history. We began The Ivy this year with a brand new review process to ensure that we have included work that represents the diverse artistic community of Princeton High School. The reorganization of staff roles ensured accountability and efficiency. It has allowed us to redesign the layout, which now better showcases the work of the artists. The visual art now fills the pages without margins, and the literature is in a professional, easy to read format. With all these changes, it was important for us to emphasize the history of The Ivy through serialization. This first issue we have dubbed “No.1” with an asterisk and permanent note on the table of contents to preserve our long legacy.

Gianna Kim & Haley Clark, Editors-in-Chief

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Andrew Licata, Caroline Forrey

Anthony Teng

Stefan Pophristic

Nicola Faas

Nicole Kahn

Marie Louise James, David Jackson

Tiffany Fang

Vicky Gebert

Kevin Tang

Marie Louise James

Stefan Pophristic

Nicola Faas, Mason Riley

Tiffany Fang, Vicky Gebert

Melody Zhuo, Richard Finn

Anthony Teng

The Slave, HumanPoetry

StrengthGraphite

Mediterranean TowerPhotography

Heavy HandsWatercolor and pen

Happy Mask, Colorful Parades...Short story

Bear, Shadows, TearsPoetry

BodyAcrylic

WiredRepurposed materials

Fire on the Plains Poetry

SerenityGraphite

Fishing on SkadarPhotography

My Four Hands, UntitledWatercolor and pen, Photography

Transience, GluttonyGraphite, Repurposed materials

Corner Story, True DifferencePoetry

CoolAcrylic

Table of Contents

*The Ivy began in the 1960s, but its serialization began in 2014.

Dear master please just see that it is oh so hard to be meTo be whipped and kicked til’ I can’t breathe

Til’ the hope is slowly sucked out of me and I can no longer see Oh master, please master, how I long to be free

To wake up in the mornin’s with no wife, please just let me reclaim my lifeWorkin’ all day and night and barely gettin’ fed can’t be right

Oh master, please master, how I long to be free My friend got six lashes, well hell I got ten

Man there’s gotta be someone out there to make this endWhen I finally get to sleep I am dragged out of bed

Oh master, please master, how I long to be freeYou white folk upstairs eatin’ and laughin’

While we down here slavin’ and dyin’ Is there anybody out there to hear my plea

Oh master, please master, how I long to be free -Andrew Licata

There are reasons we do these thingsThough we may not know what they areNo, that’s someone else’s jobto analyze, to explain, to understandWe just seem to act, or they do anywayWith no more thought than that of an animalRelying on scent and instinctThey rely on tricked sight and hearsayAre we all like that?Are we all just equal to the sum of our parts?Robots and animals, clanking and growling alongRattling screws for brains and scraping claws for handsCome on and analyze! Come out and tell me!What are the real reasons behind these words?Come on and tell me that love is nothing more than a aaachemical reactionCome on and tell me that contentment can be achieved aaawith a checklistThat dreams are just tests on how fast we can runThat stress and fear only come from hormone and aaapheromonesThat we learned morality from creatures who bite off each aaaothers fingersCome out and show yourselves, you shadowy massesYou who can not tell the human machine from the human aaaanimalAnd either of those from that slippery, sliding

The Slave

HumanUndefineable, indescribable thing that is consciousness;And conscienceAnd all those things we can’t say.Because while we may not be as smart as we think we are,Or as clever as crows with wire,Or as good with faces as sheep,Or as selfless as a rabbit that screams as it dies so all the aaaother rabbits can run and hide,There is a reason we are writingAnd thinkingAnd wearing clothes on our backsAnd I don’t think it has anything to do with that famous aaaopposable thumb.That magical, infamous opposable thumb that sits there aaastaring, mocking,Squirrels have it;And all sorts of bears, or false bearsYet it is what you do with them, those grabbing handsThey could hurt and harm, and they do -But they also buildAnd it is that spark, that gilded, heartbreaking, never aaaending thought,The very thought of thought,That makes us who we are,Human.

-Caroline Forrey

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- 5 -Strength, Anthony Teng

- 6 - Mediterranean Tower, Stefan Pophristic

- 7 -Heavy Hands, Nicola Faas

“How was your day at work?” his in-nocent little crystal eyes stared up at her. Those eyes that held the world in them.

“It was great sweetie.” She smiled the smile she had mastered by now.

She put her three children to bed, then crawled into her own, finally able to peel back her happy mask once again.

-Nicole Kahn

She didn’t hate her job. No. She loved being able to help people; to contribute some good to the rest of the world. But no one had ever prepared her for the other side to it. Never told her about the six year old, put in intensive care that morning because his drunken father had nearly beaten him to death. Never shown her the look on a moth-er’s face when you have to tell her that her baby, whom she had just struggled to bring into the world for three and a half agonizing hours, was a stillborn. Never described the way that light just drains from a patient’s eyes when they realize they’re going to die. No, they leave all of those gritty details out of the black and white powerpoint slides at training.

She wasn’t allowed to let it show though. She and her coworkers were professional robots, programmed to a calm, cheerful setting in order to reduce all potential stress on patients. If she was a patient the whole “cheerful all the time” thing would honestly just freak her out. And if she didn’t quit with the cigarettes she might end up a patient sooner than she thought. She threw the burnt out roll of paper and ash into an empty Dixie cup she had forgotten in the car earlier.

She turned down her street. Almost home. She composed herself. She was strong and she would keep a strong face for her family. She would save the tears and the chills for later. She pulled into the driveway, all trace of distress or misery already drained from her face.

“Mommy!” she heard her youngest son Bradley yell out as she pushed open the creaky screen door.

“Hi Pumpkin. I missed you.”

Happy MaskThe nurse left work at 5:00. She walked down the flights of stairs and out to the third row of the parking lot. The familiar hum of her car’s en-gine greeted her and she was already home. Bob Marley joined in and she lowered the stereo volume a bit. She had only one CD in her car and it was always playing, always on repeat. Technically the CD belonged to her brother Tyler, but he had crammed it in wrong one time and now Bob Marley was all she could listen to in the car anymore. She didn’t mind too much, though. It reminded her of Ty-ler and she hated the radio anyways.

It was slowly getting darker outside and she switched on her headlights. Winter was approaching much too quickly and the days were getting shorter and shorter, threatening to blend together completely. She hat-ed winter. It reminded her of death, which she already dealt with enough on a day to day basis. Stress crept up her spine and she could already feel the bumps rising on her arms. She needed a new job. There was too much pressure as a nurse and defi-nitely not enough appreciation.

She fumbled around for the pack of cigarettes she kept in the glove com-partment for times like this. She felt a twinge of guilt as she lit up. After all, she was the one preaching how bad they were to all of her patients every day. But then again that was just her job. Her mind wan-dered back to that dark corner for a second and she forced herself to take a deep breath in, calming her rattling bones.

Colorful Parades and Empty Promises

“Do you remember the colors?” he grabbed my fragile hands.

“Yes,” I smiled, remembering.

“We used to go down to that parade every year and you’d always point out the colors to me. Your favorite was the bird man on the stilts.”

“I remember him,” I lit up in ex-citement, letting out a laugh which turned into a cough.

“Shh...” he held me now, rubbing those familiar hands up and down my back. “You’re gonna be okay, I promise.”

He could not promise things like that though. My life was not his to give or take.

“Of course,” I mustered up fake con-fidence, “and then we can go see the parade again together.”

My words trailed off, leaving silence. It was thinking space,

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but neither of our minds were oncolorful parades or sunny days. They were on the tubes and wires sur-rounding me, the faint beeping from a machine besides my bed, and the constant surveillance by nurses who were never completely invisible.

I pushed my mind away from the present. I pulled up memories of the parades and closed my eyes for a moment. I remembered the shouts of delight and high school marching bands trying to outdo each other as oversized balloon animals made their way down crowded streets. I re-membered the smell of nearly burnt popcorn and the feel of cotton candy disintegrating as it hit my tongue. I remember feeling truly and com-pletely content for just one moment.

Those were lighter days. They went by so quickly I swore I must’ve dreamed half of them. But that was back when my days weren’t num-bered. My body wasn’t a ticking time bomb then, or at least I didn’t know it was yet. I didn’t have to worry about taking the right amount of the right pills everyday. When I went to sleep I didn’t have to worry about whether I would wake up the next morning.

I sighed. I wasn’t sure how long my body or my mind could keep fighting this. He stood up. Visiting hours were already over. I looked into his eyes and I saw sadness. I wondered what my eyes held. He turned and began to walk away. He never said goodbye. I think it was because he was afraid that if he said the words, they would become permanent. -Nicole Kahn

Worn out from travelling place to aaaplace, My limbs ache as I am dragged along, Clutching my owner’s hand, I go aaaeverywhere.

Pulled into different directions, My ligaments, the folds of an aaaaccordion, stretch. Now I become a rubber band and aaasnap back. Despite my travels, I remain un-aaachanged.

Tug, tear, stroke, play, sew, sew, sew. But every time I lose a bit, I am given aaamore. My threads fortified, my arms aaarestuffed. Old injuries closed, and I am aaarenewed.

In the darkness, small hands pull me aaaclose.“I’ve had a nightmare.”My face pressed to another, a tight aaaembrace. Together, we roll over, and the bed aaacreaks.

Now I sleep in the attic, pensive and aaareminiscent.My boy has grown old and is gone aaanow. Yet I am not alone, I have my aaamemories, My stitches, my stains, my fading aaacoat.

-Marie Louise James

ShadowsIdentical, yet opposite, these beings watch our every move. Stalking us. And yet they may be our best friends. They are the most like us, and our difference attracts us. They fade into darkness, and show us off, making us look better. Maybe the people that fade into the blackness are more than what they appear. Maybe they exist to show us off, make us seem like more. To compliment us and make us seem less different. Maybe they need to step out of the shadows to be much more.

-David Jackson

Bear

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Rain. Small droplets of water. Clear and floating down from above. Like tears of angels dripping from above. Like the tears of angels dripping from clouds and the heavens that nourish the growth on the world below. Sad-ness felt for those we cannot see. A sense, that sight alone is much more than what we need to know sadness. That our hearts tell us whether or not the day is a sad day. As these years roll down our cheeks, we are uncon-sciously told of the memories of an-gels.

-David Jackson

Tears

- 10 - Body, Tiffany Fang

- 11 -Wired, Vicky Gebert

To the trenches they were hurled; Tunnels to hell in the mortal world; Trembling from the dissonance of aaashouts; Many with the looks of doubt.

Downed as if they were stiver; Plague and illness grasps the aaasurvivorsLack of food for the weak and the illThe only choice is to kill.

Armed with tools of destruction; Beasts that obeys their lord’s aaainstructions;Charges with the aura to persevere; Every clash, salvation draws nears

Till the end few may return;Their spry vigor cannot be discerned;

Meadows that I once a’strode;Decayed, forgotten, simply denied; By the men who long since roamed aaathese landsStill shocked by the blood red sand.

Torn apart by beasts of war; Marveled by the young but now aaaabhorred; Screams of animals who were once aaamen; Concede is beyond my ken.

New boys filled with conviction; Seeking thrill and to end all misfor- tune; But soon they will quickly aaacomprehend; Of scars that may never mend.

Thus many mourn for their comrade-aaaat-arms; Strong consciences have long been aaaharmed.

However, one man still tells the tales;Of the beautiful plains and the lush aaahills;Of the friendships he made and the aaalessons he learnt;And mostly the regrets he had on the aaaplains that burnt.

-Kevin Tang

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Fire on the Plains

- 13 -Serenity, Marie-Louise James

- 14 - Fishing on Skadar, Stefan Pophristic

- 15 -My Four Hands, Nicola Faas

Untitled, Mason Riley

- 16 - Transience, Tiffany Fang

Gluttony, Vicky Gebert

A timeless painting does not need a captionA real story does not need words

If you stand by the corner of a crossingYou can smell the savory scent of fresh baked oatmeal aaaCroissantYou can observe the traffic lights change from green,to orange, to red.You can watch the passing populationin a multitude of apparelsIntricate wool loop scarves, shiny black leather bootsand a few pairs of summer sandals.

You can feel the chilly November wind,your hands involuntarily reaching for the puffy pocketsand your skin shivers, your lips trembleto the brisk, biting wind.

True DifferenceThat dark lonely feeling of despair as it creeps upon me

Assaulting me by the day A life lived not fully and spent doing nothing of value The eternal feeling that your work will never hold up

Uncertainty and fear of what will come next Only happiness seems to stall this progression

Though it seems it never lasts When happiness leaves the fear overtakes me

Eating away at my sanity bit by bit Yet, I see life is fleeting and quick to leave

Long yet short; meaningful yet meaninglessIs it our goal to try and accomplish something

Some greater meaning or value So much individuality, yet, so very little Little more than a statistic in this world

So many striving not to repeat history yet I see history repeating itself every day

We all mirror something: this is most certainly true The question remains

What is there to do

Corner Story

The little girl who just passed youis running late to her ballet class.Just like you were a few years back.You can watch the red maple leaves fall,Gently trace the withered and parched patterns.

Night silently approachesas the gloomy clouds shroud the gray skyYou begin to walk home Because,Tomorrow morning,there will be a new corner storyperhaps,with some sugar and coffee.

-Melody Zhuo

-Richard Finn

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- 18 - Cool, Anthony Teng

SHOW US WHAT YOU GOT.

Submissions are now open. Follow the link below to find out how to submit your work to The Ivy. You might be featured in our

next issue.

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Acknowledgements:Infini-T

The Anonymous Review Board

Submitters

Mr. Cameron

Ms. Nickman & Ms. Murphy

Mr. Karch

Mrs. Lygas

Mr. Snyder

AND YOU!